


Dinner for Two

by thefrizz



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrizz/pseuds/thefrizz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George has messed up again and Rube won't cut her slack. She drags her feet to his apartment knowing she's going to get chewed out by her boss. George quickly finds out Rube's real reason for having their meeting at his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner for Two

“You’re making me fucking constipated, Peanut”, Rube declared across the Der Waffle Haus bench. “Why do you always gotta do this to me?”

George shifted awkwardly in her seat, her thighs peeling off the green vinyl. Mason cleared his throat, about to say something, but Daisy kicked his shin from across the table. “Ow- fuck!” Daisy rolled her eyes and huffed, “Well, do you have an answer Georgia dear?”

“I- uh- well,” George stammered, playing with her napkin, ripping it to shreds. “What did I even do?” She was trying to buy time. Maybe something would happen. Like a Graveling collapsing the roof around their heads and she could escape the cloud of dust. It wouldn’t be the first time something tragic had happened at Der Waffle Haus.

“Listen kid, I got shit up to my eye balls. You figure this out and when you do, you come to me, and you apologize. If I wasn’t undead I’d be having a fucking coronary right now.” He threw down $7 on the table, put his half finished cup of coffee down on top of it and stalked out of the restaurant.

George sighed, realizing she had been holding her breath the whole time, and buried her face into her hands. 

“You’re in the shit now, hey kiddo. It reminds me of this one time when I really needed some cash for uppers and-“ But before Mason could finish, George had left, leaving only Daisy as his audience.

“Don’t even bother,” Daisy said as she slid out of the booth, fixing her skirt as she went.

“Well, good morning to you lot too,” he grumbled to himself, digging up a few crumpled dollars from his jacket.  
***

George barely made it through her eight-hour day at Happy Time. Her anxiety was overwhelming. Even Delores had given up on trying to help out “Millie”. She imagined the speech Rube would give her, imagined how angry his eyes could get. Maybe he would start it with his special nickname for her, “Peanut”. Or maybe with her full name, like a parent yelling at their child, “Georgia Lass”. Or maybe he would be so angry he wouldn’t be able to form coherent sentences, unlike every other time she had pissed him off royally. 

When five o’clock rolled around, George left work practically dragging her feet like the other not-so-human undead. Her palms were sweaty when she punched the elevator keys. She wiped them on her skirt. She checked out her fingernails as she rode down five floors. When the door opened, she was frozen in her thoughts. George only moved when the door began to shut again. 

The bike ride to Rube’s apartment had proven to be… interesting. It had rained the day before and the water had made the road slick against George’s bike tires. She had slipped not once, not twice, but three times. The first time resulted in ripped hose. The second fall resulted in a shredded knee. The pain from the first two falls was dissipated by a stream of motherfucks, goddamnits and cocksuckers, but the third fall’s pain could not be sated with all the curses in George’s vocabulary. Her kneecap was completely busted, slouching off to the side of her leg. Her ankle was quickly swelling. Hobbling beside her bike was too painful, even if it did give a break to her ankle. She lazily cruised down a small hill the rest of the way to Rube’s apartment. 

George had been so distracted by her fall that she had forgotten to be terrified when she opened Rube’s door without knocking.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Peanut, you get mugged on the way here?” The eternal 18-year stood before him with long blond hair dotted with specks of mud, dirty hemlines, and destroyed legs (now healing). He turned from the door to the freezer and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. “Please, sit.” He gestured toward the couch.

George had ignored regular social decorum and had already thrown herself onto the couch, propping her ankle up on Rube’s decorative throw pillows. Rube chucked the bag of peas right onto her ankle and said, “You’ll heal in two minutes, suck it up and get your muddy shoes off my fucking throw pillows.”

“So my pitiful state won’t save me from being ripped a new asshole?” George asked, making the most desperate pout she could conjure. 

“No, no it won’t. But if you want to just sit here, enjoy the smells of a perfectly browned and tender pot roast with fingerling potatoes that is simmering away in my oven for another minute and thirty seconds, be my guest. Then, we can resume our conversation. Now wiggle your toes, I need to make sure you’re healing.”

George scowled but wiggled her toes anyways. Her kneecap was already back in position and all that was left of her twisted ankle was a large bruise, that was shrinking every second, but she didn’t feel the need to tell Rube that she was basically fine. She watched him moving around in the kitchen, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder as he checked on his pot roast, looking at it as if it was a baby. He ladled the pan juices over the top of it, basting it like a mother would lay a blanket on her sleeping child. The care and love he showed to that pot roast was more than George had ever received in the two years that she had known him.

“Why do you always have to be so mean to me? The pot roast gets the gold star treatment and all I get is a frozen pea cannon to my injury?”

Rube seemed to ignore the question. He put the roast back into the oven, put the towel back on the rack, washed his hands and then sat on the edge of the couch where George was glaring at him.

“Listen, Peanut-“

“Why do you always have to call me that? All you do is yell at me! Why do I get a cutesy nickname if you hate me!” George flung her hands up in the air and stood up. She didn’t even flinch when she shifted her weight onto her previously injured leg. She paced back and forth in the silent room, thinking of more to say in her angry speech. She had no trouble listing all the things about him that drove her crazy.

“I fuck up, you hunt me down. I do good, you don’t give a rat’s ass. You tell me to do as you say, you ignore me. I don’t do what you say, you invite me over and make me a goddamned pot roast. Stop fucking provoking me! If you hate me, just tell me already! I’m tired of your crap!” She threw herself down on the armchair across from where Rube was sitting on the couch and let out an exasperated sigh. “Just tell me you want me gone.”

“Let me tell you a story.”

As usual, George mostly ignored the story. She listened to bits and clips. She smiled when Rube smiled and nodded when he paused. She said something inane referencing something peripheral about the story. She hoped it would cool him off and make him forget why she was there in the first place. 

It didn’t.

“And that’s why you never fuck with a Graveling. Got it kid?  
***


End file.
